Chapter Text
Maybe if he had the gift of foresight, Wilbur would have been able to see what would happen, what has happened for the past three years to lead up to this.
Here's what he thought would happen: Tommy would drag him out to film a random vlog; once the cameras stop recording, they could just hang out for the rest of the day as just two best friends, not two internet content creators.
Here's what happened:
"Wilbur," Tommy's voice croaks, as if saying the name is the most painful thing he's ever had to do. He looks small, and it's a reminder to Wilbur just how small and young Tommy is. He's just seventeen. His best friend is a teenager, a kid who's almost an adult, a boy who sometimes sounds mature but mostly comes off as someone trying their best to find a place in society where they belong.
"I..." He breathes out, once, then twice. "I love you."
Right outside Tommy's house on the porch while the snow falls gently, it almost feels like one of those dreams Wilbur would have where a blurry, nameless figure would love him back and they'd live their short, happy future together for those brief moments before his alarm clock would blare him awake.
Instead, Wilbur's face slowly droops into shock.
"I..." He looks at Tommy, but doesn't really look at him; instead, his mind is a million miles away on a speeding train. Rendered speechless, his mind is horrifyingly, terrifyingly blank as he tries to choose between the zero options in his head.
"I have to go," is what he decides to say, and although every part of his body is screaming for him to get out of the snow, he dashes into it anyway.
Away from Tommy, who's crying out for him to come back. Away from his feelings. Away from everything.
Away from himself.
-
Was it a good idea? He thinks to himself, as he hastily jams his keys into the keyhole of his car. To leave Tommy out in the cold, crying after him after his confession?
Tommy let down his guard and Wilbur just shut him down.
No, Wilbur reasons to himself, trying his best to remain focused on getting away. If he turns his head to the right even just a tiny bit, he could probably see the figure of his little brother, his best friend, the boy who means everything to him.
I'm so utterly and completely fucked, he convinces himself as he drives away.
It was just supposed to be a fun day where he could hang out with Tommy while his parents were out. They could listen to music, maybe even play music, or play Minecraft or any other game either of them had. The possibilities were endless.
So why did the worst one have to come true?
I love you, he had said. He has to laugh. What does TommyInnit know about love, he imagines himself responding with a demeaning cackle. What does a kid like him know; does he even know the weight that words like that carry?
Then, as a pang of stupidity hits him right in the chest, he asks himself the one question that haunts him, the one question he always asked himself in the pits of depression, the thought that plagued him as he wrote Your City Gave Me Asthma:
What do I know of love?
He could oh-so-easily say "I love you" to Tommy back. He's said it a million times before, both in the pits of despair and in the moments where he feels like he can finally breathe and move without feeling weight upon every limb of his body.
Because in truth, Tommy means everything to him.
It's the everything that scares him.
He didn't even consider the possibility, pushed it far away even when his brain continued to pop up with thoughts he should be persecuted for. He always pushed it aside, for Tommy, for his little brother, for simply his sake.
Did it fail? Did he somehow manipulate Tommy? Did he shut out his feelings so well that he wasn't even aware he was grooming his teenage best friend?
He's so fucked.
Wilbur can't even see outside the windshield anymore. He's not sure if it's because of the snow or if it's something else.
Absentmindedly, he pulls over on the side of the road. He can't even bear the thought of checking his phone; he knows that the moment he pulls it out of his pocket, he'll be bombarded by messages from the one person he usually always wants to talk to, when he's feeling this way, when he feels like the world is crumbling around him.
But he can't bear the thought of talking to Tommy and saying the wrong thing.
He says shakily, "Call Phil." And with his phone connected to his car through bluetooth, he can hear only the sound of the phone ringing and the wind howling from the outside.
"'Ello?"
There's Philza.
"Phil?"
For a sudden moment, he's struck with the fear that if Philza knew what was going on, and knew the thoughts that plague Wilbur's mind, that have plagued him for years...
Philza would completely despise him.
"Will?" Philza's voice comes in loud and clear. "What's-- what are you calling for? Aren't you spending the day with Tommy?"
Then it simply becomes unbearable.
"Phil," Wilbur says again, his vision going blurry. His voice sounds like a mess but maybe that's because he is one. "I need help," he lets out with a pathetic sob, his head falling down to rest on the steering wheel. "Please."